


A Sofa with a View

by nondeducible



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Domestic Fluff, Fluff, M/M, Schmoop
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-12
Updated: 2013-04-12
Packaged: 2017-12-08 05:44:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,855
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/757743
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nondeducible/pseuds/nondeducible
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lestrade loves football, John and Sherlock love each other.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Sofa with a View

**Author's Note:**

> There's isn't much point to this story, I just needed some domestic fluff in my life. I wrote it all in one evening and didn't have the time (or opportunity) to have it beta'd, so please forgive me for any mistakes made.
> 
> UPDATE: Look, look! [infinisea](http://www.infinisea.tumblr.com) drew a [lovely piece](http://infinisea.tumblr.com/post/51095962894/loosely-based-off-a-scene-in-a-sofa-with-a-view-by) based on a scene from this fic. Thank you!

The case was solved within six hours of accepting Lestrade’s invitation to the crime scene. Sherlock deemed the whole affair dull and pedestrian, and announced his leave as soon as the culprit was apprehended and handcuffed. He didn’t bother waiting for John to catch up or for Lestrade to finish asking questions, his mind already preoccupied with an oncoming fit of boredom. John didn’t pay it too much attention, in fact he didn’t seem to mind at all. He stayed behind chatting amiably with Lestrade, mostly about tonight’s match and whether or not Sherlock could be persuaded to come in the next day to give a statement.

“…which is why I don’t think Arsenal has a chance at getting through to the next—,” John was cut off by a loud rumble. He raised his eyebrows at Lestrade, who ducked his head in slight embarrassment.

“Sorry, mate,“ Lestrade grinned and rubbed his belly absent-mindedly. “Haven’t had a chance to grab a bite before our genius solved this “intolerably mind-numbing excuse of a case”,” he said, imitating Sherlock’s exasperated tone, which earned him a chuckle from John. “Don’t ever tell him I do that, he’ll stop “assisting our sorry lot on these pathetic and mundane paint-by-numbers crimes”,” Lestrade intoned dryly. John guffawed, covering his mouth quickly before his outburst caused any unwanted attention.

“We can’t laugh,” John said from between his fingers, still giggling. “It’s a crime scene.”

Lestrade shrugged. The rest of the police officers were getting ready to leave. “Nobody died, Sherlock only insulted one person, and I’ll get to watch the game tonight. A good night, in my opinion.”

John bounced lightly on the balls of his feet. “Why don’t you come over? To watch the game?” Lestrade raised his eyebrows at him. “We could grab some Chinese and a few beers. You have a day off tomorrow, right?”

“Yeah,” Lestrade smiled. Greasy take away, alcohol and football sounded like the perfect end to a pretty good day. “Sherlock won’t mind?”

“I’d like to see him try,” John said. He looked down at his watch. “How long do you reckon the rest of this will take?” He gestured vaguely at the crime scene and the police officers getting into their cars.

“Should be done in about an hour.”

“Great,” John gave Lestrade a friendly pat on the arm. “Bring the beer,” he said as he started to walk towards the nearest taxi stand.

“Don’t you want to know my order?” Lestrade called after him.

“I’m sure Sherlock can deduce it,” John shouted back.

Lestrade turned towards his car and hummed to himself. If the day so far was any indication, Arsenal was going to win tonight. Yes, definitely a good day.

...

After he arrived at 221b with two six packs of beer, Lestrade was greeted with piping hot Chinese food and the game already on the telly. John was getting the plates and cutlery out, while Sherlock sat perched on his armchair, pointedly not looking at the football match.

“I hope you appreciate the sacrifices made on my part,” Sherlock said by way of greeting, not even looking at the door. His knees were drawn up to his chest and his arms circled loosely around them, making him look like a disgruntled owl.

“And good evening to you too, Sherlock,” Lestrade replied unfazed, and carried on walking towards the kitchen. Sherlock scowled and turned his attention towards the telly. Lestrade got out two beers for himself and John, and deposited the rest in the fridge. They carried out the food into the lounge and sat down on the sofa. Lestrade tucked into his food and couldn’t hold back a groan of pleasure. It was his favourite and it was delicious.

“Told you he’d deduce it,” John said from beside him. Across the room, Sherlock smirked and the smug expression didn’t leave his face for the rest of the evening.

...

Lestrade stayed after the game finished (Arsenal won, of course) and enjoyed a few more hours of chatting and drinking with John. Sometime around midnight Sherlock announced he was off to his bedroom for the night, claiming he needed to conduct an experiment in peace and quiet. At around two in the morning Lestrade realised that he was very tipsy (but definitely not drunk, thank you very much) and that he missed his last train home. The prospect of going home on a night bus in his less than sober state didn’t sound very appealing. He must have vocalised that thought because the next thing he knew John was piling up blankets and cushions on the sofa beside him.

“Stay the night,” John said, removing some of the clutter from the other end of the sofa. “I know it’s not as comfy as your own bed, but it’s better than a night bus.”

“Thanks,” Lestrade smiled up at him. “And thanks for the great evening.”

“Don’t thank me yet, you might wake up with a hangover tomorrow,” John chuckled. They bid their goodbyes and Lestrade fell asleep almost immediately.

...

Lestrade woke up with a slight headache and a smile on his face. Not wanting to give up on sleep just yet, he wrapped the blanket tightly around himself and burrowed deeper into the sofa cushions. He heard water running somewhere in the flat, most likely John taking a shower. Forever a soldier, up the crack of dawn.

He opened his eyes blearily and looked around the room. Spotting his phone on the coffee table, he reached out for it to check the time. Nearly nine. Groaning, Lestrade threw the blanket over his face, desperately hoping to catch just a bit more sleep. Just before he dozed off again, Lestrade thought that, all in all, it wasn’t such a bad start to his day off.

Sometime later he was woken up by the smell of coffee and toast. He could hear John puttering about the kitchen, trying to make as little noise as possible. Lestrade heard a door open somewhere in the back of the flat and a shuffling Sherlock came into view a few moments later. He was dressed in his pyjamas and blue dressing gown, and didn’t seem to notice Lestrade as he flopped down into a chair. Just then John came out of the kitchen, fully dressed and carrying two mugs of coffee and a plate of toast. He set down one the mugs and the plate in front of Sherlock, whose only response was to yawn loudly. Lestrade couldn’t think of a time he’s ever seen the detective yawn.

“Shush,” John whispered, as he lifted his own mug to his lips and took a careful sip. “Lestrade’s still asleep.”

Lestrade closed his eyes quickly and schooled his features, trying to give off his best still-very-much-asleep impression. He felt a bit like an intruder, seeing John and Sherlock during their morning routines, but the temptation was just too great to resist. Seeing the domesticity of their shared breakfast was like watching a rare and easily spooked bird. Mentally berating himself for the comparison, Lestrade reflected he might’ve had a bit more to drink the previous night than he previously thought.

“Hmpf,” Sherlock huffed. Lestrade heard toast being eaten and dared to open one eye slightly. John was standing right next to Sherlock, his hip brushing Sherlock’s shoulder. He was sipping his coffee with a faraway smile on his face, looking somewhere through the window. His other hand was in Sherlock’s hair, running his fingers through the detective’s curls. Sherlock leaned into the touch and continued to chew on his toast thoughtfully.

Lestrade was amazed at the affection between the two friends. He’s seen, first hand, how curt and terse Sherlock can be at crime scenes, even towards John. Lestrade often wondered whether Sherlock might push too far one day and drive John away, irreparably destroying the friendship they’ve built over the last year. But it seemed that in their own flat, shielded from the outside world, those two were more than fine. Their affection towards each other was a testament to their strong friendship and Lestrade felt privileged to witness it. Even though he was still pretending to sleep and was effectively spying on them. It was, as John was fond of saying, all fine.

John bent down so that his lips were almost touching Sherlock’s hair and murmured something inaudibly. Sherlock swallowed his last piece of toast and looked up at him smiling. Not a calculated or condescending smile, but a genuine, slightly lopsided smile. Lestrade couldn’t remember Sherlock ever gracing him, or anyone else, with such a smile. Sherlock whispered something to John, still too quiet to be heard by Lestrade. John’s only response was to bend down further and kiss Sherlock lightly on the lips.

Well, then. Things seemed to be more than fine between those two.

Lestrade fought very hard not to react in any way. He was slightly overwhelmed by a sudden wave of affection for the pair. If anyone deserved to be happy, it was them. This revelation made Lestrade so cheerful, he wanted to jump up and hug them both. He knew he couldn’t of course, it was a private moment and they had every reason to keep it that way. He understood the need to keep it a secret, there was no need to give anyone more ammunition against themselves, be it the less sensitive officers at the yard or the criminals they chased after every other week.

Sherlock wrapped his arms around John’s waist and buried his face in John’s shirt covered belly. His words were muffled when he spoke, but Lestrade could still make out what he said.

“Let’s go back to bed. Lestrade won’t be up for at least a few more hours.”

John chuckled and set his mug down on the table. He grabbed one of Sherlock’s arms and tugged. “I forgot how vital morning cuddling was to the great Sherlock Holmes.”

Sherlock got up from his chair and scowled at John. “I do not cuddle, that is preposterous.”

John smirked and kissed the underside of Sherlock's jaw. He grabbed Sherlock's hand and led them towards the (shared, Lestrade assumed) bedroom. “I’ll never tell a soul you like to be the little spoon.”

Just as they disappeared into the kitchen Lestrade heard Sherlock say, “If you did, I’d tell everyone just how much you like scrubbing floors.” John snorted in response. Lestrade heard the bedroom door shut and the flat fell into silence.

He settled more comfortably on the couch. He should get up soon and go back home but the prospect of more sleep was quite tempting. The affectionate scene made him feel strangely content with the world at large and he wanted to bask just a little bit more in the warmth of 221b. Lestrade knew that next time he saw Sherlock the man would know what he witnessed, there was no way the detective wouldn’t notice. Whatever the consequences, Lestrade was now bound to keep the secret and he would do it gladly. Smiling to himself, he turned his back to the room and fell asleep within moments.


End file.
